Welcome To The Freelance Business
by Zalgo Jenkins
Summary: When Tatsuhiro Sato's parents stopped sending money, Sato had a choice: give up his social isolation, or starve in his room. He chose a third, crazier, far more lucrative option. But what happens when the assassin he hired for his "online business" wants to meet him face to face? AU. Crack. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Again, almost certainly a oneshot. For those who've seen Welcome to the NHK, this is _very_ AU, and Misaki doesn't exist. Also, this is pure crack. You have been warned.

**Welcome To The Freelance Business**

It's funny what you stumble into.

My name is Tatsuhiro Sato. With the exception of the occasional midnight outing for food, I haven't left my apartment in seven years. Not since my first year of college.

It was easier in the beginning – Mom and Dad supported me as well as they could, I guess, but a tanking economy blew that. They always wanted their little boy to grow up to be a salaryman. And eventually CEO of something, probably. _Mister_ Tatsuhiro Sato, thank you very much. Important guy. As opposed to: "T. Sato, Hikikomori." Social Parasite. Leech.

I make my own money now. Lots of it. More than I need. Certain skills pay really, really well. Don't even need to leave home to do it. Per-fect. But I'm still a social parasite.

The apartment smelled. Plastic bags covered the floor. They were filled with cartons, cans, and the occasional half-eaten noodles. Most probably had mold, or worse. You know that green ooze at the bottom of trashbags? The kind you only get when you leave it too long? Yeah. That.

Hungry.

I tiptoed over the bags to my mini-fridge. As usual, my coordination sucked. My foot sank into one of the squishier bags, and the bag ripped. Something moist oozed through my sock.

"Gaah!"

No problem. No problem, no problem. Just stand on one leg, Sato. Oh. It's dripping. Look how the carpet's getting kinda green. But it'll dry. Right.

I lost my balance. The next thing I knew, I found myself lying in half-gooey, half-metal-and-glass filled bags. My back was wet. Beer cans poked my shoulders. Something stank in my hair.

…Ho-kay. Allright. All. Right. No problem…again! Sit up slowly, Sato. Ignore the slurping sounds. Re-pile 'em. Aaaand…

Disgusting.

As long as the landlord didn't see it – he _did _have a key to this place. I knew he had one. Did he come in and spy on me when I was asleep? Peer under the door? Sniff near the windows for the telltale smell of mildew?

It was _my_ mess. And I paid him good money, didn't I? More than most tenants. Double, actually. I wished I'd had the nerve to e-mail him the last week and _tell _him that I'd pay him triple if he stopped caring about my apartment's cleanliness. B-u-u-u-u-ut that would have raised more questions. I don't like dealing with questions. Or arguments. Especially those. Really. Couldn't he just figure it out on his own? "Rich Tenant: Leave Alone!" It's practically a keep-out sign. The double rent, I mean.

So it was a little smelly in there. The human nose gets fatigued quickly. Put an unfamiliar scent in front of it, and it'll register the stink for all of a couple minutes. An hour max. I made the exact figure up, but it's probably accurate.

The bottom line is that I was used to it, and I practically kept my room insulated anyway. Like the bathrobe I stuffed under the crack in the door. It was because of the neighbors. Neighbors are nosy. Always. It's like a rule. And they might be – no, they _are_ – listening to you. It's none of their business what you're doing, but that never stops them. Nosy, nosy. Eugh.

My computer bleeped. A message? Oh.

I crawled toward my desktop to the sound of crinkling bags, crumpling aluminum, and the occasional plastic crunch of a soda bottle getting stepped on. I tripped again. The computer chair broke my fall.

And that is my daily exercise.

I blinked at the screen. My eyes blurred. Ten hours in front of a screen. Practically evening. They'd stare at that fuzzy white screen for at least six more.

My browser frame is pink. It's pink now, and it was pink back then. It's one of those cutesy ones, with flowers. Yamazaki changed it as a joke before he graduated, and I never bothered to figure out how to change it back.

Or maybe it reminded me of him.

He still sends me milk once in a while, from that family farm of his. I hate milk. Spoils too fast. Gives me indigestion. It's still a nice gesture. But I hate milk.

A line of links on the left side of my screen. Weapons magazines. Military newsletters. City directories. Google maps. Auto tag info. ZOrbitz trip scheduler – not for me. Police newsletters about new forensic techniques.

Crime stories from a dozen newspapers, digitally sorted. Woman drowns baby in bathtub. Man abuses wife. Mistress backs over lawyer with car, pleads emotional disturbance. Same old. GoodReads hereby informs you that _A Killing in Detroit_ is out in Kindle. A Mystery Press book. Well isn't that nice.

I wondered whether it would have a love story. Sappy, preferably. No sex, or at least some very obliquely described sex. Too hard to visualize these days. The sense of realism wears off when you remember that it'll never happen to you. For all intents and purposes, it doesn't exist in this world. Might as well read stories about aliens.

But sappy love stories, now…? Yeah. I remember emotions like _that_ well enough. Carefully husbanded. You need to let them out to play once in a while. Exercise them, you know? Otherwise, they start decomposing. Like milk. In a mini-fridge.

Huh. New drug arrest. It was far enough away from Tokyo that I didn't have to worry about anybody making connections. Some witness was expected to testify. Wonder if the dealer _really_ didn't want the guy talking…?

Or…Hey, hey. Society column. New ultra-rich divorces. Lots of infidelity, too. _Always_ a good source of revenue.

...Then again, _she_ didn't usually like taking those kinds of jobs ("It's fucking _petty_, Sato"). Paid well, though. Oh, did they pay-

_PING!_

I felt the cold wave of adrenaline that always accompanied that sound. Limbs froze. Heartbeat always seemed to stay the same, but anyway.

I.

Got.

Mail.

I didn't get much. Almost nothing, really. Blocked most of the sites that tried to send me junk, too. When you've whittled your life down to a couple people, it's like every conversation is meeting somebody for the first time. Same goes with e-mail. Angry landlord? Did he find my alt email? Or—cops? No. No, no. Not them.

_Revy!_

Cue butterflies in my stomach.

* * *

**FROM: **TwoGunz  
**TO:**%FS)C3f t4pnifg

**"Sato",**

**Yeah. Two things. First off, your plan worked. **

**Thanks for the payment in advance. I don't know what Swiss fucking bank account you've been stashing all this money in over the years, but you must be rolling in it by now. How do you find these jobs? **

**Before you let it go to your head, your plan didn't work perfectly. **

**For starters, the flight you booked for me Sucked. Ass. No fucking meal service. ORANGE JUICE instead of booze? You kidding me? Do better next time, or it'll be your ass. I'm not joking.**

**The businesswoman-to-college-girl disguise switch at the airport bathroom was just cheesy. Car worked okay. Traffic routes worked. Fake identity worked. Target's home layout was pretty much like you described it, right down to the glass fucking chandeliers. What kind of douche has chandeliers? It was one of those young professionals' neighborhood developments. I swear every house was fucking cloned. Like Stepford or something.**

**I avoided the dogs. Good catch. And you booked a motel room with a perfect path to the target's yard. Plenty of cover thanks to those bushes. He goes swimming like clockwork. 9:00 PM on the fucking dot! I swear I got within two feet before I killed him.**

**…Seriously, how do you set this shit up? You must have contacts out the wazoo. Or way, way, way too much time on your hands.**

**Anyway. Cleaned the scene up, burned the evidence, disposed of the body, yada yada. I'm sending you the video file. Your "tactical analysis" of that hit had better be pretty fucking insightful, since you SAT THIS ONE OUT and all. (You're really just jerking off to the footage, aren't you? Admit it.) I didn't have time to do streaming, but it would've been PRETTY FUCKING HELPFUL if you'd done your usual "mission control headset" thing this time instead of…Oh, I dunno…sitting on your ASS in your ivory tower and leaving it to me. Bastard. **

**Did you have a "special" occasion with a significant-fucking-other that night, or what?**

**I'll find out soon enough anyway. Hey, whaddya know – a segue.**

**So, second thing. I was bored recently. You know how I get when I'm bored? Yeah. I gave a couple people I know a LOT of money to do some research for me, and we found this guy called "Tatsuhiro Sato" in Tokyo. Same last name as you. Cool, huh?**

**Funny thing? He went to the same high school as Yukio "I've Got A Psycho Yakuza-Samurai-Ninja-Butler" Washimine. Same Washimine family that you've COINCIDENTALLY got me doing plenty of jobs for. And I don't believe in fucking coincidences.**

**So I'm a few blocks away from your house. Call it curiosity.**

**Or maybe I just got tired of talking to a faceless guy who insists on speaking to me through a keyboard like Steven Fucking Hawking even when we're on a fucking ****voice chat****.**

* * *

I was frozen. Completely frozen.

Why did I give Revy part of my real name? Why did I give her part of my real name? Why, oh why, did I give Revy, a hardened assassin, part of my real name? Why did I give her –

I knew the answer to that. I knew it. Knew it. Lo-o-o-o-o-onely young man. Right in one. Bingo.

Gotta clean up. It's a mess in here, and—

-and you're about to meet a fucking assassin. Who. CARES. About. The. Carpet.

…Which was all gooey and stinky.

Gooey and—

ALL RIGHT. I'LL CLEAN THE FUCKING CARPET.

It was unprofessional. That's what it was. You contact a stunningly beautiful former convict through your underworld connections to be the hit-woman of your assassination business, and the next thing you know, she's paying you surprise housecalls.

Had Duke Togo ever done this to me? Kiritsugu? Zwei? No. No, they hadn't.

As I stuffed sludge and cans back into the thin, white veils that divided the human and garbage worlds, I scanned the apartment. Hanging clothes. Hm. Black button-up shirt. Sniffed it. Still smelled OK. Hadn't laundered it in a couple days, but it would do.

Jeans?

Oh. Wearing 'em. Just go with that. I crammed rubbish into shopping bags, and shopping bags into garbage bags. And garbage bags into bigger garbage bags.

Another room scan.

Calendar. Garbage. Desk. Hentai pinup. More garbage. Printer—

CRAP!

I ripped the pinup from the wall and stuffed it into the trash. It was so adorable, too: a doe-eyed girl, a gun, and a birthday suit. For shame, Sato. For shame that you would—

Save it. For the love of all that's good and pure in this world.

I snatched it from the garbage and lovingly brushed off the grease and sauce stains. Oh, what I had almost done. My beautiful Kirika. So _what_ if you weren't an "official" release.

I stuffed her under my upper bunk bed.

Knock.

Knock.

K-N-O-C-K.

I clapped a hand over my mouth _just_ in time to suppress the terrified yelp. A muffled voice came from the other side.

"Hey. 'Sato'. Open up."

_Just go away._

"You know I can pick locks, dumbass."

_Please go?_

"…and I'm gonna be REALLY FUCKING PISSED if I have to break in and then find you standing there."

Slowly, I rose and crept to the door. My voice came out as a squeak.

"C-coming...um…"

_Oh, just get it over with._

"…Coming, ah, R-Revy."

Mental checklist time.

Black shirt? Check. Not-quite-filthy jeans? Check. Disgusting goo cleaned out of hair? Mostly. At least I brushed my teeth regularly. And I wasn't _bad_ looking, exactly. Just socially…challenged. And emaciated. Yeah, that.

The door opened, and the most beautiful woman I'd ever met stepped through. Delicate face. Tanned, muscular legs. Tattoos covered by a green turtleneck. And guns. Like a model crossed with a Bond villain.

She stopped dead when she saw my room. And breathed.

"What. The. Fuck."

"Um…hi," I said.

She didn't say anything.

"Beer?" I said. "It's a little stale. Sorry."

Blink.

Blink.

"Ooookay," Revy said. "I can sure pick 'em, can't I?"

Technically, I'd picked _her_. Of course, back then she'd just been Rebecca, former Chinese-American juvenile delinquent, former prison inmate, and sometime murderer. Good shot as well. And maybe, just maybe, I find a lack of impulse control really, really, really attractive.

Well, better get it over with. I scratched the back of my head. Something wet stuck to it. Um. How do I get this off?

Etiquette for this situation? Anyone? I need it.

"I'm…uh, just a little..."

"Nuts?" she said. "Bonkers? Crazy? Out to lunch? Off your fucking rocker? Playing the bedlam banjo with Ted Kaczynski?"

"…Housebound?" I tried.

"Nuts," Revy agreed.

I sat down on the bed, and used the opportunity to surreptitiously wipe my hand on the covers. Revy was staring at a nude Sailor Moon statue that my frantic clean-up had somehow missed. Possibly because the statue was buried in a pile of diagrams of our last target's house.

Revy shook her head. Her hand was hovering dangerously close to one of her shoulder holsters. Twitch. Twitch.

"I've been taking orders from John Fucking Nash," she muttered.

Not wanting to make things worse, I stayed silent.

"Nash," Revy repeated. "You know. Crazy mathematics fucker who—"

"I saw _A Beautiful Mind_," I said.

"Oh," she said. "Well excuse _me_ for believing that you might be a little—"

"Fifteen times."

"…disconnected."

Revy pulled up a seat – mine – and twisted it backwards, so that her legs were straddling the seat-back. She was wearing a plaid skirt over her stockings. Fingerless gloves clenched.

"Okay," she said. "See, this would _almost _be funny if I didn't fly halfway across the Pacific. So you get one chance, 'Sato'. What. The. Fuck?"

"Um, I'm not sure what you—"

Revy lunged out of her chair, arms spread, encompassing my tiny apartment like the spirit of Victory basking in glory over Greater Europa. Or something like that.

"THIS!" she said. "All this shit! You expect me to believe that you're the guy who helped the Washimine Clan kick out the Russians? The guy who chopped down out the J.R.A. into practically nothing?"

"Balalaika wasn't as thorough in setting up her base of operations as she'd originally believed," I said. "She didn't hide it well enough. Miss Washimine went to high school with me, and I _do_ have a lot of free time."

Revy's eyes widened a smidgeon.

"And the J.R.A.?" she said.

"Japanese Red Army?" I said. "Oh _yeah. _Riiight. Right. That's easy. They're working with those bastards at the NHK. Can't let 'em get away with that."

Revy raised an eyebrow.

"The NHK?" she said. "You mean the broadcasting company?"

I leaped out of my bed.

"That's just what they _WANT_ you to think!" I shouted.

I paused and looked down the barrel of a pistol that Revy had shoved next to my nose. _Click. _Maybe I'd stood up a _leeetle_ too quickly. And shouldn't have shouted. Um. That's…kinda intimidating, actually. Sweating already. Armpits especially. That's considered _really _unattractive, right? So…what to do. What. To. Do. Raise my hands and get Revy to lower her pistol, or keep them down and disguise my embarrassing armpits?

I couldn't decide.

"So," I said. "The NHK. Right. Those guys. Did you ever stop for just a _moment _and consider that the Japanese characters for 'NHK' were also an acronym for 'Japanese Hikikomori Association'?"

"…No?"

"Well, you _should_ have!" I snapped.

"Whoah there, Rain Man. Are you _trying_ to get me to blow your head off?"

Bother. I'd have to explain the whole thing, wouldn't I? Was I the only person in Japan who PAID ATTENTION, or what?

"The NHK masterminded the giant conspiracy behind my fear of going out in public," I said. "Heck, agoraphobics in general. Everybody with social anxiety in Japan. And just _maybe _the world. Haven't confirmed that one yet. You ever wonder why so many Japanese young people are hiding at home? No?! Hah! Because shut-ins like me watch LOTS of anime. And who markets anime? The NHK! And don't get me started on my 'world is an alien hologram' theory, because I'm pretty sure the NHK is working with the little green fuckers—"

And again, the Revy-staring-at-me thing. I paused mid-gesticulation.

"Question?" I said.

"Um…yeah…"

Revy's brow pinched a little. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with a pistol.

"So you exterminated the largest Communist terrorist organization in Japan…" she said.

"Yup," I said. "Killed the bastards. Bam. Dead. Splattered 'em like pancake batter. Well, hired people to splatter 'em like pancake batter. I did the research legwork, though. You like pancakes?"

"…And you killed them because you believed the Commies were part of some giant conspiracy to keep you indoors."

"The NHK," I supplied.

"Right. That. And that's the reason why there's no more Communist terrorist movement in Japan."

"Yep," I said.

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Had I said something…Oh, Revy was wondering about the job! How stupid of me. Must be.

Major oversight, there. Revy was all about cash, at least if the files I'd compiled were any indication. Missions against Evil are nice and all, but I needed to assure Revy that I was all business. Idealism doesn't pay the bills. The NHK could wait.

"So about the next job," I said.

No response yet. I squeezed past her (gun still firmly planted in my face) and printed something off the computer. A gentle whirr later, and the printer spat it out. I handed it to her.

A mustachioed man sat on some sort of verandah, surrounded by potted plants. His shirt was pink. My printer was black and white. The detail was lost in translation.

"Diego Lovelace," I said. "The Colombian cartels offered us _lots_ of money for this guy. Best part? I tracked his financials. His trust fund's got a one percent stake in the NHK."

"The conspiracy?"

"The broadcasting company," I said. "Well, same difference, I guess. I mean, a one percent stake in the company probably means he's a ranking member of the Conspiracy Committee, right? Or something like that."

Revy sighed.

"Okay, _assuming_ for a minute that I don't just cap you right here, right now… how much is this worth?" she said.

I told her.

She became a lot more enthusiastic. Or at least she lowered the pistol. It's hard to gauge enthusiasm in girls. Women. Young women. Whatever they prefer to be called these days. I don't get out much.

"Oh, right," I said. "Almost forgot. The maid's a former FARC assassin."

A silence dragged on for several minutes. Finally, Revy pushed herself up with another sigh.

"I _really_ don't want to think about this shit right now. You want to get a drink or something, Rain Man?"

I stopped and considered. My gaze strove mightily to avoid the Sailor Moon statue staring accusingly from behind her pile of assassination blueprints.

"I know a great vodka vending machine a couple blocks away," I offered. "Wait another hour and the street'll completely deserted. Absolutely zero human contact—urk!"

Revy grabbed me by the collar. She kicked the door open and pulled me into a rather crisp Tokyo night. Adrenaline - equal parts fear and exhilaration - flooded through my stomach. _OUTSIDE. MY. APARTMENT._

Not…

…Not as bad as I thought. Well, not _quite _as bad as I thought. Almost as bad, maybe, but couldn't see any people, and…oh. Wow. No stale, re-breathed air or anything.

Revy rolled her eyes.

"I can tell this is going to be a long night," she muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Okay, so. As requested here and elsewhere, I'll be writing at least a snippet or two from time to time in this universe. Here's the first. I warn you that I'm not sure when the next one will come out. Maybe not for a while

* * *

I don't remember the first hours of that night very clearly. The street smelled like unfamiliar people and gasoline. Neon signs. Horns honked. It was snowing, and it flurried in our faces.

We stopped in warm bars with red-faced patrons. Most were sweating. Like boiled octopi. One of the places had a yellow ceiling with lights shining down through cigarette haze. And a potted fern. Revy leaned against the bricks on the wall and threw back shot after shot of something. I drank, too. Not much.

The faces. I hated the faces. They're all the same in the city, since they're all hostile. Two variants, like the NPCs in one of those old shooter games: Male Hostile Face #1, and Female Hostile Face #1. I felt equal parts adrenaline and nausea.

Alcohol always makes it worse. So does nighttime. Daytime people still have manners. They know that you're supposed to keep your eyes ahead and mind your own business. When they're _drunk_, though…that's when they get _social_. They snicker at you. Stare at you. Shout something about how douche-y your stupid fucking baseball hat looks. And it _is _stupid looking. You know this. But how else can you stop them from looking into your eyes?

Not that they said anything that _particular _night. But they were thinking it. And it's happened before. Oh, yes.

The people of that neighborhood had an understanding with me. The Washimine Clan "protected" the neighborhood. Miss Washimine protected me. So the neighborhood weirdo got a pass. It didn't stop them staring, but they stared less. Maybe. I didn't look up much.

I could hear their questions in my head. Never mind that they didn't say anything out loud. They were thinking it. We all knew.

_A girl like her, and…? What's wrong with this picture? __That__ guy? _

What conclusion would they come to? Beautiful woman. Toned legs. Fit. Energetic – almost hopping around. Under thirty.

Creepy emaciated young guy.

I blushed a little. More shame. They'd think Revy was a hooker or something, wouldn't they? And that _I _hired her. I knew the Washimine Clan's leader, after all. They must've figured I had money.

Yeah. As if I'd have the guts to hire a hooker. You need to go up and talk to them first.

After a while longer, the sounds of the street faded again. I could see lights in the distance, where the houses on Tokyo's outskirts straggled over a hill. This was closer to the park near my apartment. I _think? _Dunno. Looks vaguely familiar. Kinda. Lamps on a suspension bridge twinkled.

"Looks like a fucking Christmas tree," Revy muttered.

We trudged through snow. Iron railings barred us from the park itself. Revy rattled a stick along them until she either got bored or spotted an opening – not sure which. We ducked in.

_Crunch._

_Crunch. _

The footsteps, I mean, not the snowfall itself. Snow is silent unless provoked.

Revy sauntered to a wooden pavilion near the water and leaned over one of the fence posts. They were wooden. The sort I'd have played on as a kid, weaving my way in and out like a snake.

Revy put her hands behind her head like a cushion, and leaned back a bit. She blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"So you're the criminal fucking mastermind I've known for the last four years, huh?" she said.

"Y-yeah. Sorry."

"So what's your sob story, huh?" Revy said. "Just gave up on other people? What, were starched shirts and cubicles too fucking scary for you?"

If I hadn't been suffering from disorientation, I would have gritted my teeth. Or even said something mildly rude. How was I going to get home, anyway? It's not like I had a map. This was what? Seven blocks away from my apartment? Nine? At least double the usual, anyway. Did Revy think I was fucking Ulysses? Tatsuhiro Sato: landwrecked wanderer of the Tokyo suburbs.

"Something like that," I said.

Revy snorted.

"Poor little rich kid," she said.

"My family isn't rich."

Revy spun around. She poked me in the chest through her fingerless gloves. The other hand gripped my collar, holding me within proper poking range.

"You think this shit would fly where _I _came from?" Revy said. "Huh? Pfft. Yeah. Right. Good luck growing up near Mott Street, ya fucking pussy."

Pause. Revy sucked down the contents of a beer bottle. Tossed it. Smash.

"So what's the deal with you and the Washimine bitch, anyway?" Revy said. "Why did you help her in the first place?"

"Not much to tell," I said.

Revy waggled her eyebrows. She needled me in the ribs with an elbow, surprisingly hard.

"What, did you two fuck back in high school or something?" she said.

Hm. How to answer.

I remembered that evening in the classroom, when the sun lit everything orange. Remember, Sempai? The glint on the desks, and your glasses. That silly dark-blue sailor dress you wore for school. Not like the schoolgirl uniforms of male fantasies, either. Long skirt. Conservative, as always. Trees rustling out the window. An empty playground below us. And shadows in the clubroom.

Philosophy always interested you, didn't it Washimine Sempai? I wonder if that's why you made a club out of it, or if it was just that you were bored. Lonely? You quote that Sartre bullshit a lot less these days than you used to. Or was it Hegel? Kant? Whatever. I always loved listening to it.

Fate.

That was always the theme. Wasn't it, Sempai? Fate and the encroaching darkness. Like you were some sort of Norse goddess waiting for the end of the world. Or—Yakuza princess. Close enough.

But again, I remember that evening in the classroom. The sound of silk swishing as you undid your collar. Rustling fabric. Warmth, and the air conditioner's hum, and wetted lips on mine. Fumbling, too. Birds cawing in the schoolyard. You would have appreciated them if you'd listened, Sempai. Would you have been philosophical, and imagined they were ravens?

I wonder if that was disappointment in your eyes back then. Had we not gone far enough? My soul hadn't rotted yet, so I was better at reading the signs back then, Sempai, but I didn't know. You should have told me.

You wanted Ginji, of course. So, so badly. I knew that. And you got him in the end. Well done.

And I wanted…?

"No," I said. "No, we didn't."

Revy's nose wrinkled. She gave an exaggerated roll of the eyes.

"You didn't need to stare at me like that," she said.

"I wish you'd put it more politely."

"Heh. If you think that's bad, you need to get out mo—Oh, right. Never mind."

Revy had brought along another six pack of beer. She nudged me with one of them. I declined. With a shrug, she opened it.

_Click. Fizz. Ping_.

The bottle cap fell. Revy chugged the contents down.

"…So how'd you come up with this NHK conspiracy theory bullshit?" she said.

"Oi. What do you mean 'theory'?!"

Revy rolled her eyes.

"Whatever."

"You mean before or after my refrigerator mentioned the possibility?"

Revy stopped walking and stared at me.

"…your refrigerator," she said.

_Okay, fair point._

"Well, the toaster might have contributed," I admitted. "Idea bouncing and stuff. You know how it is sometimes."

"Not even a little," she said.

"Um."

"So," Revy said. "Your refrigerator talks to you."

"…I might have imagined it."

"Might?" she said.

"It's possible."

"Ah."

We walked in silence a while longer.

"In my defense, I'd been listening to a three-day loop of the _Magical Girl Pururin _theme song at the time," I said.

"I'd say that it all makes sense now, but I'd just be kidding myself, wouldn't I?"

"Probably."

Revy lit a cigarette. Its glow highlighted her dainty cheekbones, hugging the softer curves of her face. Oh, and was her skin ever smooth.

"…So _that's _what you were doing instead of helping me in our last job, huh?" Revy said.

"What?"

"Fapping to magical schoolgirl 'toons?"

The thought of it. Oh. Eugh. Urk. How my stomach churned at the thought. Revolting. Pururin. Beautiful, unsullied Puririn _tainted _by Revy's disgusting imagination. A symbol of the childhood I'd long ago left behind. Pururin. Pure. It's even in the name. Sick. Sick, sick. Revy doesn't know what she's saying. Ignore her. Ignore her, my lovely, sweet, innocent, social interaction surrogate.

I glared at Revy.

"No," I said. "I wasn't."

"Then what?"

"…Nothing."

Revy was getting that Cheshire grin again. The kind with canines showing. Fangs, kinda. Like, little cute fangs. Adorable little foxgirl fangs.

Ugh. I was doing it again. And Revy could tell. I knew she could tell. They can read what you're thinking, and they get this unhappy look on their faces. Frown. Scowl. Lowered eyebrows. Everything that foreshadows disapproval.

But she was still grinning. So…why?

She nudged me.

"C'mon," she said. "I wanna hear it."

"It's stupid," I said.

"I'm sure it is. And I _wanna hear it_."

Harder nudge. Growl.

"Fine," I said.

And then mumbled something.

"What?" she said.

Mumble, mumble. The ground was interesting. Re-e-e-ally interesting. Oh; my left shoe was untied. Huh. Look at all the asphalt; it must have rained recently, since it was all glistening and stuff.

Pain. Scalp.

Ow.

Revy was yanking my hair, wasn't she? Not that I could look at her to make sure, but I sure _felt _it. Irony.

"Oi, dumbass," she said. "What did you say?"

"I was writing a novel, okay?" I snapped. "Fine. Fine! I'll tell you so you can laugh about it! Ha-ha. Am I right? There's this young emperor in a tower, and he's been there for forever – like the Outsider in Lovecraft, but not ugly or dead. Oh, and he's got OCD too. He's commanding this giant army that's conquering a fantasy world Sauron-style, but he can't get out of the tower. His only friend is an orc-girl, but she's a _hot_ orc-girl, and she leads his armies. Like a general or something. She's also a ninja. And a maid. Except that she dresses like a butler. So anyway, the young emperor's equally-evil father appointed the orc-ninja-girl-general as the prince's guardian, and she's raised him ever since. They have this special bond through a soul-link, so she _always _understands him, and she's the only one who can—"

"Yeah, you're right," Revy said. "It's stupid."

She let go of my hair.

Her voice had sounded tired, for some reason. Not angry or mocking. Well, both. But tired.

Something burned a little in my chest. Heavy and empty at the same time. Aw, is that shame, Sato? Hurt? Well, what do you expect from a real-life girl?

If only she wasn't. Hm. Revy the erogame character. Revy in a maid costume. On my bed. Let's pretend she's laundered the sheets, too. In her capacity as a maid, I mean, since that's what maids do. Right. That way, I don't have to feel ashamed that I never wash them. They're usually itchy.

Anyway. She'd be nestled on soft blue sheets, lounging halfway between my pile of manga and the TV I kept at the foot of the bed. Hentai posters behind her. Blouse teasingly open. Almost. And oh-la-la, you can _feast your eyes _on my skirt, Tatsuhiro Sato…it's the one you like with white frills on the fringe, just like my pa-a-a-anties…

See?

No.

No, you do not see.

You never get to see.

That is the Rule.

And if you try to violate the Rule, the NHK supervisor in charge of Tokyo Branch will crank up your anxiety _just _enough to stop you. Juuuust enough. Crank on the anxiety dial. They had a special one for me, probably. Sato needed to continue living in an artificial world, didn't he?

"Why me?" Revy said.

Just like that, my thoughts bounced away in a zillion directions. Like pool balls.

"Buh…?" I said.

"Why did you pick me?" she said.

Revy's cheeks were still bright red from the cold, or the alcohol, or both.

But only that. Don't get me wrong. This wasn't schoolgirl blush or anything. Her eyes weren't glazed anymore, though...Had she sobered? Had she even been drunk in the first place?

I shrugged and returned my attention to the ground. Snow crunched.

"I needed somebody who could be my hands and eyes," I said. "You can only get so far as a planner, you know? Togo used me once or twice for minor stuff. Zwei, too. But you can't get consistent work if you need a partner all the time. Miss Washimine only asked me for help that once, so that wasn't gonna work. She's thinks she's all about _helping_ me. Sure, throw money at the emotional cripple, but for crying out loud, don't let him _earn _it or anything-"

"But why _me?_" Revy said.

Oh. Good. Sigh of relief. A softball question.

"History of violence, for starters," I said. "You got away with a _lot _of that stuff scot-free, which meant you probably had good instincts. You were Asian-American, so you could kinda blend in for both of my major markets. You needed cash. Plus, you had a few underworld connections, _great _shooting skills, killer instinct..."

_…You were beautiful…_

Revy's eyes narrowed. Maybe she'd read my mind?

Or not.

"How much do you know about me?" she said.

"Everything."

Revy stopped walking again. This time, she was looking down. She seemed shorter this way – and _was _shorter. It was easy to ignore. She didn't usually hold herself like a short person. Even the cutesy green turtlenecks couldn't hide toned arms and promised violence.

Snow swirled around her. Revy's hair looked blacker than usual.

Quieter voice, too.

"Sato."

"Mmh?"

"How much do you know about my life before all this shit?" she said.

"You mean before or after the policeman…uh…did that…thing to you in—AAAGH!"

No warning.

Lancing pain. On my cheek.

Falling. Oomph. The back of my head struck something cold and wet and powdery and hard at the same time: the point where the snow met the asphalt.

I saw stars.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!

Six shots. Two ringing eardrums. All of them had impacted within a few feet of my head. The ricochets were almost as loud. Good thing that I'd closed my eyes, since stone chips scratched across my cheeks.

I threw my hands around my head. I was whimpering? Yes. I think I'd wet myself, but couldn't be sure. Anyway, I knew I was shivering. When my eyes cracked open a smidgeon, Revy was panting. Little puffs of steam rose into the air with each exhalation. Her pistol shook in her hands.

Revy's voice went quiet again.

"You don't know _anything_, you overprivileged, batshit little fuck," she said.

"O-okay…"

The lamp was humming overhead. Light glinted from Revy's pistol. Cutlass. That's what was inscribed on it.

"Any other confessions before I waste you? I want to be thorough here."

A chance to atone? Death? I wasn't sure that it was a terrible option right now. I'd held off before because I could never work up the guts. Dying hurts.

"I…I eliminated that Triad guy who wanted to kill you in New York. Whatsisname. Er, anyway. Had him killed. Not the one in Roanapur. The guy you worked for in Chinatown way back. He took out a contract on you. Um. This was before I met you—uh—formally."

Revy's finger twitched. Just get it over with. Staring death in the face isn't pretty when you have to WAIT FOR IT. The fear just seeps back. And the cold.

"Uh…l-lots of other people, too," I said. "Those FBI guys who t-tracked you to Chicago took some doing, but they weren't careful about their room service. Ah. Right. There's the car bomb that I used to kill the gang leader in Philadelphia—"

Revy's mouth barely moved when she spoke. I almost missed it.

"Burns?" she said.

"Um…I think so," I said. "The guy who wanted to chop you up and feed you to his pit bulls, right?"

"Burns. Jake Burns."

"Okay…Yeah, right. Sorry. Burns. It took some finagling to find dynamite for my Philadelphia contact to use. Needed to get him to bribe a guy who worked at a construction site. And I killed…uh, Thatcher? Yeah. I killed Thatcher when he sent those guys after you in San Francisco—"

"That's enough," she said.

"I…okay?"

_Just kill me already. Kill me and get it over with. Don't torture me. Please. I don't like pain. I don't like it._

But…no.

Oh, so slowly, Revy lowered her pistol. She shoved it back into her shoulder holster. The metal snap, well, snapped. It was a sharp sound. A crack in that cold, skin-drying air.

"Stay away from me," Revy said. "You understand, you little shit? No more contacting me. No more interfering in my fucking life, or stalking me, or whatever the fuck you do. No more anything."

I found myself nodding. She pointed at me. And yes, there was a wet spot on my jeans. Needed to launder them now. Fucking crowded laundromat. Two, sometimes three people were waiting there. Like that woman with the pink smock. Always the pink smock. And at 2 AM? Who washes anything at 2 AM? Fucking laundromat.

"I'm leaving now," Revy said. "Stay down until I'm gone."

Nod again, Sato. Good dog. She'll abandon you just like you knew she would. A-a-a-always knew. Heh. If only she'd stayed away. You could have kept fantasizing. Reality's a bitch.

I…

My throat caught. Breaths that could have convulsed into sobs (under different circumstances) were suppressed.

How many years down the tube was this, now? Four. I mean, who else did I know? Or do _anything _with? Revy had been a business partner, a real one: somebody other than Yamazaki and his stupid galgame. But HE was happy, now, wasn't he? Where did that leave me?

And where was I going to find another assassin who _talked _to me instead of just doing the job? Revy – two-hands, psycho-hit-girl Revy – was the closest thing I still had to a friend.

It wasn't fair. Not. Fair.

But I'd still do what Revy had asked. I'd stay away. Because I'm _not _creepy. I'm not. Not deep down. Right? I'm a gentleman. I stay away from beautiful girls when I'm not wanted. Which is often.

Okay, so I fantasized. So what? This was supposed to stay Platonic anyway. Except now, it was NOTHING.

The snow kept falling, and Revy disappeared into it.

I whispered goodbye.

Well played, NHK. Well played.

* * *

**Preview of Next Episode:**

My computer fan whirred.

So this was life. So-called. A cheerful jingle told me that I'd just signed in to AmmoWorld Online ("World's Only First-Person-Shooter-Role-Playing-Game. Build a gang. Kill the competition. Rule the city. Trademark.")

**[YouAre(Not)Alone has signed in]**

My avatar walked through Disneyland style buildings. It made crunching noises as it ran, as if the game designers had skimped on paying Foley editors, and had just eaten a box of cornflakes instead. The place was one of the smaller "cities" in the game, but I liked it for some reason. Looked Swiss.

My two best (online) assassins were waiting for me. Brother and sister. Freaky-good with the FPS stuff, but they weren't much in the planning department. That was where I came in.

Like everything else here, they had cutesy animal avatars: two cats in black clothing with little lacy collars. One male, one female. I guess it got past the censors better that way.

The female avatar waved.

**[GothiKitten]: **Hello~o!

**[YouAre(Not)Alone]: **Hey, guys.

**[GothiCat]:** It looks like our Fearless Leader has returned. Time to plaa~ay! Right, _sora mea_?

**[GothiKitten]:** Right you are, _fratele meu_.


End file.
